


Seven Seas At Least

by Honeymull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/pseuds/Honeymull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He decides to come back to the NHL. Says he misses it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Seas At Least

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Wonderlust by Gogol Bordello. And due credit: almost everything in this exists because Cathybites thought of it first.
> 
> My god, this is a self-indulgent piece of work. Everybody gets along! Practices are like recess! Hahaha. HUMOR ME.

_He decides to come back to the NHL. Says he misses it. Brandon watches that interview so many times, watching Z's mouth quirk up in a vague little smile when he says those words. Brandon pauses, replays, watches again._

+

They sign him at the start of the 2010 season. The calender is crumpled at one corner for that month - Brandon had smacked his hand into it excitedly, all alone in his apartment when he got the news. It was still the off-season, practices still being scheduled as optional, weekends still free more often than not. The day had been slow until then, spent watching TV and doing half-hearted pull-ups on the bar he installed on a whim at the top of his bedroom door-frame. He ends up using it as a clothes hanger more than he uses it to build muscle.

He can't sit still after that, though. He stares at the TV without watching whatever run-of-the-mill, laugh-track-abusing sitcom he's arbitrarily settled on, drums his fingers all along the arm of the couch, and stands up again. He tosses the remote back and forth between his hands restlessly before punching the set off.

He can see his reflection in the dark screen of the TV now, sees very clearly how the grin is creeping up on his face, mouth flattening out at the corners, curling just slightly. He bites down on both lips against it, bounces a few times on the balls of his feet and pops his cheeks back out. The sound is loud in the empty apartment.

Brandon's not used to being this twitchy. He eyes the pull-up bar – or rather, he eyes the few inches of pull-up bar still visible under the tenuous balance of clothes slung over it.

A few seconds later, he blinks and makes up his mind, grabs his running shoes and the shorts slung over the pull-up bar, stuffs them in his little duffel and goes to work the anticipation off at the gym.

+

Nicky shows up at one of their optional practices a week before he's scheduled to attend their first official practice.

Brandon's fighting Mats for the puck behind the net when someone hollers from across the ice. Brandon looks up to see Aaron launch himself at the area behind the benches, obviously seeing something Brandon can't from his position. Mats uses the distraction to shove his shoulder into Brandon's and steal the puck. Brandon ignores him in favor of drifting closer to middle ice to see what's going on.

He recognizes Nicky about halfway there, dressed in his jersey and equipment where he's talking to Aaron and Chris. Torts is sitting in one of the seats not far away, clipboard and pen in hand. He looks up when Brandon skates up to the benches and gives him a nod.

It makes Nicky look over, and he breaks into a grin when he sees Brandon hopping the bench. When he's near enough, he reaches out and hooks an arm around Brandon's neck, reeling him in. It traps Brandon close while Aaron starts laughing, and something tilts in Brandon's stomach at the feel of Nicky's shoulder warm and tough against his cheek. He can smell him, too, and his face heats just slightly.

His laugh isn't quite forced – he's fucking _delighted_ to see Nicky again, nothing's getting in the way of that – but the heel of his hand whacks into Nicky's kidneys with maybe a little more force than it needs to as he fights the hold.

Nicky releases him with a grin, but keeps his hands on him, straightening Brandon's jersey where it's rucked up on his shoulders, smoothing it down and dusting him off like he's Brandon's mother. His eyes are still laughing when he stops after a moment. His hands rest heavily on Brandon's shoulders.

“Hi,” he says. He's trying to keep his smile tamped down. Brandon can tell.

Brandon clears his throat. “Sick of the motherland already?”

Aaron snickers and Brandon cuts a glance at him. He almost forgot he was there.

Nicky makes a face, one Brandon can't decipher, and looks from Aaron to Brandon and then out onto the ice where half the team is scattered. Brandon follows his gaze. Hank's blocking each shot Mats skims past him with ease, white teeth flashing behind his mask; Dan's drilling pucks at Jody while yelling something to Ryan; P.A. checks D.Z. into the boards, sending him sprawling six feet across the ice on his ass. It's not a particularly pretty picture, Brandon thinks. Not to the objective gaze.

But when he looks back, Nicky's looking at him again, and his voice is wry when he answers, “Missed it.”

Aaron snorts. “Missed _us_ ,” he corrects, as Chris nods in silent agreement, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Nicky's tongue slips out to wet his lips, almost like he's nervous. Brandon's eyes go wide, and he quickly looks back out at the ice. He doesn't know where Nicky's looking when he laughs and admits, “Mm, maybe. Something - something like that.”

Chris claps him on the back companionably. “We're glad to have you back.”

Aaron ruffles his hair until it's standing violently on end, for his part. “Fuck yeah, we are.”

Nicky just smiles a little crookedly at both of them, and when he turns to Brandon, Brandon doesn't know what else to do beside smile helplessly back.

 +

The rest of practice is a wash. It takes Brandon longer than he'd like to recognize this.

Nicky hangs back to talk with Torts for a few moments while Aaron and Brandon return to the ice. Brandon skates back to the goal line.

Mats is closed in on the crease, now, listening to something Hank's telling him, batting the puck back and forth with his stick absently. Mats never pays enough attention to what's going on around him when Hank's talking. It's kind of ridiculous, but Brandon figures he's just fallen prey to a bit of hero-worship. Nothing wrong with that.

Especially not when it makes snagging the puck away from him in what Brandon considers to be quite the ninja move all that much easier.

Hank shoots Brandon a look that could be annoyed if Brandon didn't know better as Mats cuts their conversation short to fling himself after Brandon and the stolen puck. He catches up with Brandon around the nearest blue line and slams into him low, nearly a hip-check, without slowing his speed.

It's almost entirely ineffectual since he's braced and expecting it, so Brandon's only thrown off balance a tiny amount. He manages to huff out a laugh at Mats, just to annoy him, and plays keep-away with ease, blocking Mats with his body. Once Mats introduces dirty pool by knocking at his stick and ankles to distract him, though, it turns into a tussling match, quick and stupid and still affable with all the relaxation of the off-season.

Brandon has one hand fisted in Mats' jersey when a heavy presence whooshes up behind them: Hank, skating with purpose toward the benches.

Mats tries to throw him a grin as he goes by. Hank doesn't make eye contact.

It makes them both look toward where he's headed – to the benches, where Nicky's in full view stepping out onto the ice. The rest of the guys are finally noticing, skating over to say hi, and Nicky's smiling under the swarm of head-knockings and shoulder-claps. Brandon releases Mats' jersey from where it's all bunched up in his hand, shuffling back a little bit.

“That's Nicky,” he informs Mats. Mats rolls his eyes in a silent “ _duh_ ”. Brandon cuffs the back of his head and starts skating toward everyone, tugging Mats along. “You should say hi.”

He hangs back when Mats starts wriggling his way through the light press of bodies around Nicky. He's already said his hellos, after all, but he grins and sketches a mock-solemn salute when Nicky meets his eyes over everyone again.

Aaron and Vinny drift over to him a few moments later, and he ends up skating off in the opposite direction to practice corner passing, anyway.

They keep at it for about thirty minutes, switching positions and luring in D.Z. and Ryan to shake up the drill.

About halfway through, Brandon's aware that he's not concentrating. He _knows_ he's not concentrating, and while he's moving his feet and moving the puck, his head is only up because he's wanting to turn his head and find where Nicky is on the ice.

He doesn't blame himself – when he was on the line with Nicky and Aaron, it was some of the most instinctive playing he'd ever experienced. They slotted together, knew where each other were on the ice almost exclusively, the ever-changing positions and presences like tiny nudges in his mind. It makes sense he'd fall back into that pattern once Nicky was back sharing ice time with him.

Even if Nicky's at the other end of the ice, badgering Hank with quick sniper shots at the goal, flinging up ice on his twists and turns - nowhere near Brandon.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Mats skates up to Nicky, tilting his head back while he says something.

An easy pass from Ryan slides past him, and Aaron calls him a name.

He returns the insult by rote and smacks the next pass straight back at Aaron instead of into the goal. Aaron startles a bit, but snipes it away and toward the net anyway, even at his awkward angle. It ricochets off the pipe instead of going in and Ryan skates after it, sighing.

There's an echo on the rink, and five minutes later, it carries Nicky's weird, halting laugh across the ice, and Brandon misses the puck again. He snaps his attention back to where the puck's skidding past and reaches out with his stick belatedly, a pointless move.

Mats yelps excitedly from the other side of the rink and Brandon's attention slips again. Fuck it. “Yeah, okay. I suck today,” he concedes, rolling his eyes when Aaron raises his eyebrows at him and mutters, “Seriously.”

Brandon ignores him and swipes at a trickle of sweat crawling down the side of his face with his glove.“I, uh. I guess I'll take the afternoon off, or something. Sorry.”

Ryan shrugs him off, gives him a smile and shoots the puck into the empty goal. Brandon lingers for about two seconds more before shuffling off the ice.

 +

The showers in the locker rooms have fantastic water pressure. Brandon almost wants to shower here every day, where getting clean involves half the time it usually does, and includes a free water massage in the deal.

The flip-flops he wears into and out of the shower room are hardly slip-resistant, and when he turns the corner into the main area, toweling off his hair and not paying attention to his surroundings, he trips: Nicky's sitting right there, on the nearest bench looking in toward the showers. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, and he's looking up at Brandon with an expression that gives nothing away.

Brandon hates it automatically, registering it mentally even as he catches himself on the corner of the wall before his trip actually takes him down.

“Creeper,” he grumbles, rubbing his palm where the edge of the wall bruised into it.  
Nicky just gives him a look, and then he gives him _a look_ , taking him in from head to toe. Brandon draws back just slightly, barely wary, but -

“What is on your feet?” Nicky asks.

Oh. Brandon mumbles something about foot fungus and not messing with a body part that's a tool of his trade...he doesn't even know what he says, just that it's something stupid. Nicky doesn't really respond, simply keeps sitting there, and Brandon goes over to the messy pile of clothes he threw over another bench before his shower.

He hears Nicky shift, like he'd turned around to follow Brandon's movements. Brandon doesn't look over his shoulder to see. His hair's still wet, and it hangs in dripping strands across the back of his neck. He can feel the water sliding down his back, dampening the fabric of the shirt he throws on.

He tugs the rest of his clothes on quickly, restlessly, then sits down to pull his shoes on in a position that has him purposely facing away from Nicky.

It only takes five minutes or so. Nicky's quiet the whole time.

Brandon turns around when he's all dressed, shakes his hair out again like a dog and quirks a smile at Nicky. He's kind of hesitant about it for a minute, but... It's _Nicky_ , and he's back here, and Brandon gets at least a whole season of kicking ass all over the ice with him again. Just thinking about that makes whatever stupid half-assed expression he was making turn into a genuine grin.

Nicky stands up and grins back. It's wide and white but he still pauses for a moment before saying,“There is no Rock Band in Russia.”

Brandon stares at him. That...kind of came out of nowhere. And he's pretty sure Russia does, in fact, have some kind of Rock Band-type product. He blinks, then darts a glance to the side. The locker room's gapingly empty except for them.

Nicky takes a couple steps forward, brings himself deliberately closer in this wide-open space and blinks guilelessly back at Brandon. “None.”

Brandon doesn't think about it, doesn't – doesn't want to read anything into this, because they're talking about a stupid _game_ for Christ's sake, and it's not like they're – he shuts that train of thought down, because either way, it's Nicky. “None, huh.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. His fingers come back dripping with excess shower water, and he wipes them absently on his t-shirt. “That's terrible. You should come reacquaint yourself with it. Probably missed it, huh?”

He winces internally at that last sentence even as it's leaving his mouth, but Nicky just smiles a curling, smug little thing and tips his head toward the exit.

Brandon takes a breath and heads out, aware of Nicky's presence at his back.

 +

Nicky kicks his ass at Rock Band if Brandon lets him play the lead guitar. He assigns him to the drums instead, gets a stream of disgruntled, not-so-under-the-breath Russian for it, but that turns into intense concentration the moment “Gimme Shelter” starts playing.

Brandon feels kind of stupid after he loses the first round they play. It's not like it's been _that_ long since he's done this with Nicky, but yeah, he's forgotten how this goes. Nicky's hands are big, wrapped around the drum sticks, and his tongue pokes out just barely as he stares at the scrolling musical notes on the screen.

Brandon tries not to look over at him. His fingers slip on the guitar every time he does, and every time he messes up, Nicky smirks. Which makes Brandon mess up _again_. It's a ridiculous cycle that makes Brandon feel about fifteen years old.

After Nicky blasts him for the third round in a row, he throws his drumsticks at Brandon's head, hard.

Brandon squawks, manages to catch one of them out of the air and feels the other one hit high up on his ribs. “What the fuck, what was that for? You're winning, dickball!”

Nicky glares at him from behind the little drum kit. “ _Letting_ me win.” His tone is full of indignation.

Brandon collapses on the couch and rubs his side where the stick hit. The spot doesn't really hurt that bad, but he plays it up to see Nicky's glare even out into something more watchful.“I am not. And jesus, dude, you go all psycho violent when you win now? Man, warn a guy!”

Nicky stands up and makes his way over to Brandon. “I didn't _hurt_ you.” His voice is all fond contempt, and Brandon struggles to keep from smiling at it. Fuck, he's missed this.

He freezes when Nicky sits down too-close on the couch and pulls Brandon's hand away from where he's still covering the sore spot on his ribs, though. Nicky's head is lowered as he replaces Brandon's hand with his own, fingers tracing where the bruise will be through Brandon's t-shirt. Brandon stares at the top of his head with wide eyes.

When he doesn't make any move to push him away, Nicky pushes his first two knuckles in hard against the spot. He looks up at Brandon's surprised hiss, meeting Brandon's gaze before Brandon can look away or blink or, or _say_ anything, because -

Because Nicky leans up and bites at Brandon's bottom lip in a not-quite-kiss, slipping his hand up under Brandon's shirt to spread possessively over the curve of his ribs.

Brandon can't breathe for a moment, and Nicky presses an oddly chaste kiss to the side of his mouth before drawing away. He leaves his hand splayed across Brandon's skin, though, can probably feel it when Brandon shivers, he's pressed so close. He studies Brandon for a moment while Brandon tries to get his brain working again in any capacity, but whatever Brandon's feeling, it's evidently not showing on his face.

Nicky takes his hand away in the next moment - letting his fingers glide over Brandon's skin as they go in a way that's going to haunt Brandon at inappropriate times for the next month at _least_ – and the hesitancy in his expression sends something distressing and ugly whirring through Brandon. His mind finally decides to break its frozen spell, and he snaps forward, grabbing at Nicky's wrist.

It's warm in his grip, and under the pads of his fingers he can feel Nicky's pulse. It's quick, beating hard against the underside of the skin. Nicky's not making any move to pull his wrist _out_ of Brandon's grasp, but he's wearing the same unreadable expression he had on when he was waiting for Brandon outside the showers in the locker room earlier.

Brandon's still not a fan of it. He presses in against the pulse in some absent-minded, tardy retaliation to the prodding Nicky had given his ribs just a few minutes ago. He's half-choking on sudden laughter when he mutters, “You crazy Russian.”

Nicky snorts at him.

Brandon yanks sharply on his wrist in answer, forcing Nicky off-balance and then getting caught in the ensuing tangle of limbs as they crash together and over, backwards into the give of the couch cushions.

When the world rights itself, Nicky's regarding Brandon somberly from where he's hovering above him. Brandon's flat on his back. He...didn't really mean for that to happen, that great flail of bodies there. He'd just wanted to bring Nicky a little closer.

Not that he's complaining with how they both ended up. He smiles innocently up at Nicky.

Nicky pokes him in the chest with a finger and settles in more comfortably, one leg wedged between the back of the couch and Brandon's side, one foot flat on the floor. “You. You kept me _waiting_. Could have - could have _had_ – and. You waited.” He pokes at Brandon once again before opening his palm over Brandon's chest. He watches his fingers walk over the long bone of Brandon's clavicle, trace up his throat and then straight down the middle of his chest, seemingly entranced. “Stupid,” he adds, glancing up and fixing Brandon with a very serious look.

Brandon's known for a while that he's kind of useless when it comes to Nicky, but the fact that he just smiles wider at being called stupid cements that. He wriggles down into the cushions and Nicky drops his weight to follow him, one hand going to brace on the couch to one side of Brandon's head.

He's pressed low and near and heavy, and Brandon knows he's going to have to deal with some epically inappropriate flashbacks to this whenever they celebrate a goal together from now on, when they slam in together with the same brand of adrenaline stringing them along. He can't bring himself to care. He hopes Nicky's going to be thinking of this, too, when that happens.

Nicky's hair is longer than it used to be, and the way it curls up just barely at the ends fits around the curve of Brandon's fingers perfectly when Brandon reaches up to pull Nicky's head down.

He's still thinking about celebrating on the cold ice when Nicky tilts Brandon's jaw into the position he wants, when Nicky's eyes gleam down at him, up until Nicky opens his mouth over his and he sinks into that, instead.


End file.
